It was still home, even in these post-catastrophe years. And Harry had chosen to go there. Probably, Abigail thought, grimacing slightly, because he wanted peace and quiet while every part of him healed—body, mind, and spirit. Poor Harry. He probably did not suspect what was about to descend upon him. Or perhaps he did. For the Westcotts did nothing as well as theyrallied. If there was a whisper of trouble for any one of them or any anticipation of something to be celebrated, the family gathered to support and plan.
If Harry had forgotten that fact—though how could he?—then he was in for a severe shock. For of course the family had arrived in force last evening at Marcel’s London home. But it had not been enough simply to rejoice over Harry’s return and the imminent arrival back in London of Avery and Alexander. Oh no, indeed. Harry must be seen in person and welcomed home and fussed over and worried about and planned for.
The aunts had spent all of half an hour with their heads together, trying to think of a suitable nurse to hire, preferably male, or perhaps one male and one female, but in any case someone who would be prepared to live for an indefinite time at Hinsford, worrying Harry back to full, robust health. They had not used the wordworrying, of course.
If there had been an ounce of sense among the lot of them, Abigail thought now, it would surely have occurred to someone that the best way they could welcome Harry home and ensure that he recover fully was to write him letters and stay far away from him, at least until he indicated that he was ready for visitors. His mother and Abigail and Camille were perhaps exceptions, though maybe not even them. Perhaps Harry wanted to be entirely alone.
“Not much farther now,” her mother said from the seat opposite, smiling at her. “Sometimes a journey seems endless, does it not? I hope Mrs. Sullivan has hired extra help, as I instructed her to do.”
Mrs. Sullivan had been the housekeeper at Hinsford as far back as Abigail could remember.
“I am sure she has, Viola,” Marcel said, squeezing her hand again. “I daresay she is as eager to welcome Harry home and smother him with loving care as you are.”
“Smother,”she said with a frown. “I hope none of us will do that. Though it will be hard not to, I suppose. Atleast he is not quite alone. Avery told Anna in his letter that he and Alexander would remain at Hinsford until Harry is properly settled in. And I cannot quite imagine either of themsmotheringanyone with love.”
The whole family—with the exception of Elizabeth and her husband, Colin, and Elizabeth’s mother, Althea—was on its way to Hinsford or preparing to be, and Mama had sent off an urgent letter to warn Mrs. Sullivan.
Poor Harry.
But Abigail longed to see him. And she longed... oh, she too longed to be back home. At Hinsford. She and her mother had lived there for a while after Camille’s marriage and before Mama married Marcel and the two of them had moved to Redcliffe. Abigail had not been unhappy during the past three and a half years at Redcliffe. But... well, it had never felt quite like home, for which she was entirely to blame. She had certainly been made to feel welcome there.
And then suddenly shewashome. The carriage was turning onto the drive leading to Hinsford Manor.
“Here we are,” her mother said, leaning forward in her seat and gazing eagerly through the window, as though she expected to see Harry bounding down the drive to meet them. “Oh, I hope the journey all the way from Paris was not too much for him. I ought to have gone there myself. I ought not to have listened to everyone. He ought to have had his mother with him during such an ordeal.”
“He would have hated it,” Marcel said firmly. “It would have been humiliating for him to have his mama hovering over him every yard of the journey.”
She looked at him in exasperation. “Sometimes, Marcel,” she said sharply, “I hate you. Especially when you are right and I am wrong.”
He grinned at her.
Abigail, traveling with her back to the horses, turned to look behind her toward the house. They had been spotted. She could see Alexander and Avery out on the terrace, and a tall, thin, frail-looking man at the top of the steps just outside the front door, his hand on the rail.
“Oh, dear God,” her mother said. “Harry.”
And then there was all the flurry of their arrival and descent from the carriage. There were hugs and handshakes and inquiries and the barking of a dog from the direction of the stables and the sound of an axe chopping wood—and Harry remaining at the top of the steps, looking down at them, neither smiling nor frowning. Abigail wondered foolishly whether she would have recognized him if she had passed him on a crowded street in London.
She was the first up the steps to touch his arm—she was afraid to hug him—and gaze earnestly into his face.
“Harry,” she said. “Welcome home.”
“Abby,” he said, a smile hovering on his lips before she gave way to their mother, who showed none of Abigail’s hesitation to gather him into her arms and burst into tears.
Suddenly Abigail found that she could not stay to watch. Neither could she step past her brother to go inside the house, where they would all follow within minutes, the turmoil and bright cheer of their arrival continuing. She needed some air before she fainted. She made her way back down to the terrace, waved away Marcel, who was looking at her in some concern, and turned in the direction of the stables.
She just needed to walk for a minute or two to clear her head, she told herself as she hurried along, and give herself the courage to look at Harry again without dissolving into tears as her mother had just done, or—worse—fainting.The carriage had pulled away to the carriage house at the far side of the stables. The dog she had heard earlier was over there somewhere too, objecting loudly to its arrival or perhaps welcoming it. The sound of the axe grew louder.
And then she saw the man—groom or gardener—who was using it. He was beside the stable block, tackling a large pile of logs, which he was reducing to wedges of firewood on a chopping block. There was a sizable pile of wood, neatly stacked, beside him. But it was not the wood that caught her shocked attention and stopped her in her tracks.
It was the man.
He was naked above the waist. Below the waist his breeches, more like a second skin than a garment, hugged narrow hips and long, powerfully muscled legs. Leather boots, old and scuffed, looked as though they must have been molded to his calves. Muscles rippled in his arms and shoulders and along his back as he wielded the axe. His dark hair curled damply at the nape of his neck.
Abigail swallowed and would have moved on, unseen yet horribly embarrassed, if a huge shaggy monster of a creature, which she did not immediately identify as a dog, had not suddenly erupted from behind the stables and come dashing straight for her, barking ferociously. She did not scream. But she did remain anchored to the spot as she raised her arms protectively before her face and whimpered or wailed or pleaded for mercy—truth to tell, when she looked back later, she could not recall exactly what sounds she had made, if any. Something humiliatingly abject, no doubt. But just as she expected the animal to leap for her throat, a deep voice issued a command.
“Beauty, sit!”
Beauty sat so abruptly that Abigail dropped her arms insurprise. She could see now that the animal was indeed a dog, a huge lump of a creature with a shaggy grayish white coat that hung over even its eyes and mouth, almost obscuring them. Its front legs were long, its rump wide and somewhat lopsided. It sat with mostly erect ears, one of which flopped over at the tip; a lolling, panting pink tongue; and a tail that thumped the ground. Abigail dared not move, lest the order to sit be forgotten in the dog’s eagerness to attack.
